


A Bonnetful Of Bee

by applegnat



Category: Football RPF, Music RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-15
Updated: 2007-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applegnat/pseuds/applegnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoria doesn't see why anyone, she least of all, should have to be stuck with a bunch of big-haired, shabbily-dressed Mrs Lombardy title challengers who'll be impolite about her in yet another language she can't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bonnetful Of Bee

**Author's Note:**

> Written in early 2007, when Becks was sold on from Real Madrid to LA Galaxy - most ignominously.

David comes home one day expecting that Victoria will be delighted with a prospective move to Milan. Shopping, fashion, fairytale houses, wonderful place to bring up children.

"David," she inquires with an exacting sweetness that even Cruz realises means that Mummy is unhappy, "did something hit your head very hard?

He thinks back for a moment and says, quite seriously, "No, not really."

Idiocy is a moment's work. Setting it to rights takes the experience of a lifetime longer than Victoria will soon be willing to admit to.

Growing up (back when she had the time to read), Victoria's favourite book was The Scarlet Pimpernel. A gorgeous young singer is wed, unhappily, to a wealthy English gentleman who is a bit thick in the head, only to fall head-over-heels in love with him later on as she realises that the thickness is a mask for his alter ego, the cunning daredevil known as the Scarlet Pimpernel. The two of them go on an errand of death in revolutionary France, save each other's lives, and live happily ever after as their misunderstandings are gloriously swept away.

When she told David the story, he said, "Pimpernel," and snickered.

More than once, Victoria has considered what might have been if it had been Michael Owen in that hotel ten years ago.

She doesn't want to move to Milan. She didn't want to move to Madrid either, but they did and it took her a long time to adjust to the heat and the traffic and the strange people. She doesn't think her lack of enthusiasm to go over the whole thing once again should be held against her. Besides, fashion capital or not, Victoria doesn't see why anyone, she least of all, should have to be stuck with a bunch of big-haired, shabbily-dressed Mrs Lombardy title challengers who'll be impolite about her in yet another language she can't understand. She couldn't care less for being chattered about by people who'd probably have to wait for reservations in restaurants outside southern Europe. She's started the year at the top of [Glamour's best-dressed women list](http://www.thecelebrityblog.com/category/beckham/) – or at least, top of the list of women with intact breasts – and she is going to get herself some fucking respect for it.

"What about Los Angeles?" she asks.

"Los Angeles," says David. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" says Victoria, knowing that someone, somewhere in the Madrid dressing room, has laughed at him for considering it. She ignores the homicidal impulse because right now it is important that she be angry at David rather than for him, and continues to stare him down.

"Yeah," he repeats. "Thing is. I'm wondering if I really want to go to America."

"Yes, I'm wondering if you really should have had sex with your secretary, too," Victoria says firmly. "Lots and lots of wondering. It's a wondrous thing, marriage, isn't it?" (Only people who have never been cheated on will say it is is evil of her to play the adultery card.) David looks instantly chastened.

He also looks in need of a hug, but Victoria is over her maternal phase, thank you very much.

"So," he says.

"So, David," she says.

"What should I do?"

"Whatever you think is right, of course," she says, moving closer to unknot his scarf.

Of course, either way will bring trouble, because in spite of the fact that neither Justin Timberlake and Nelly Furtado can sing a note more or less than Victoria, when she signs a deal with Timbaland it will be to 'revive her flagging music career' that David moved them to America (flagging. _flagging._ Not that she could care, with three children - children who call her and not the nanny 'Mum,' at that - and really, it isn't like she's given anyone the impression that she's hankering to be the next Mariah Carey). If they go to Italy they will spend just as much time talking trash about their hair and their clothes and their children as people did in Spain and it will make Victoria angry again. And really, _English_. It's delightful that people can travel to other countries and jump into the adventure and absorb the culture and start talking the talk, like Cannavaro and his chubby wife, but languages don't come easily to Victoria, she cannot help it, and it is not a crime to want to bring her children up in an English-speaking country.

"It's some cash," he ventures.

"They'll actually let you play," she says.

"Soccer," he says, and smiles ruefully. "Heh. I'll be playing soccer."

And yes, alright, it's enough to make her want to kick some doors open and stick a heel into some people, the way the last six months have been, because it is always, always David paying some kind of price. But they'll go away, like those old Protestants, and start over and have advantages in life and make money and everything. Life in America can get as ugly as horizontal stripes, for sure, but there will be bright lights and a walled estate and neighbours who won't care.

"Tom called, by the way," she says. "He asked you to call back, no matter what time it is."

And all said and done, it'll be a pleasure when, the next time some utter slag introduces herself as 'Fergie – as in the Duchess,' Victoria will be able to smile again behind her glasses and say, 'Victoria – as in the Queen.'


End file.
